


In Sickness

by recoveringrabbit



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:18:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5125523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wouldn't it be nice if FitzSimmons had nothing worse to deal with than the mother of all colds?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sickness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [memorizingthedigitsofpi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi/gifts).



> I wrote this two or three weeks ago, so obviously it doesn't take the Will-pocalypse into account. Let's just pretend it never happened, okay?

The truth of it was, the Playground was fantastic at protecting its inhabitants from extraordinary threats and absolute rubbish at defending them from ordinary ones. After the “Real SHIELD” takeover there had been a steady effort to shore up both inner and outer defenses, eventually resulting in a base so secure one had a better chance of taking Moscow in winter. No manner of security, however, could change the fact that there were nigh on a hundred people living and working there, sharing dishes and bathrooms and video game controllers, breathing filtered air and seeing the sun infrequently, if at all. All of which mean that a single runny nose could and would bring the entirety of SHIELD to its collective knees. No multivitamins or required time under sun lamps could fend it off. Nothing Jemma tried to combat this fact with was successful. All they could do was take their shots and hope nothing of galactic importance happened during flu season.

The epidemic currently sweeping through the base, precipitated by a rheumy toddler encountered on a mission and already known as the Cold From Hell, had a one hundred percent infection rate. It was one of those bone-aching, head-pounding, snot-dripping type of colds, the kind that starts in your soft palate and ends in your lungs, where pushing through only elongates the torture and ends in laryngitis. Even May had to take to her bed with the Grumpy Cat mug full of Theraflu. Luckily, it hadn’t hit everyone at once. Due to Fitz’s draconian rules about lab hygiene, the Science Division managed to hold it off a good three weeks past the time it laid all of Ops out at once. Unluckily, that meant that when a newly-healthy Coulson needed a rush analysis of some debris recovered from the site of the latest Inhuman Welcome Wagon, the burden fell by default on his sniffling, wheezing department heads.

It was a long and difficult analysis—the samples were _far_ from pristine and sorting out what was significant blood and tissue and what was just ordinary blood and tissue took time—and Jemma heaved a sigh of relief when she reached the end of it. At least, she _tried_ to heave a sigh. The congestion in her lungs made it rather more of a whistle. Pushing her goggles up on her forehead, she pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing them to stay in their proper place in her skull. She needed to blow her nose quickly, or the pressure was going to push something out.

As she moved around the table in search of a tissue box that hadn’t been scalped, she heard their lone healthy technician nearly wail, “I’m sorry, sir, can you say that just one more time?”

Fitz’s eyes flashed with irritation like lightning in a pitch-black sky. The mere fact that she could see it through the misery meant that he was about to punch something. “It’s not even rocket science, Omega, it’s university-level physical science lab. Take _that_ bit and run it through a bath at 5.7% acidity and then heat it to _exactly_ 427 degrees Celsius and judge where it falls on the Banner-Ross scale, all right?”

Omega looked at her helplessly. She couldn’t blame him. Between Fitz’s brogue and Fitz’s congestion, the words were nearly unintelligible even to her practiced ear. Poor Omega looked ready to cry. Offering him an apologetic smile on Fitz’s behalf, she gently took her partner by the elbow and drew his attention. “Could I help you with it, Fitz?”

“All done with yours?” At her nod, he shook his head. “Go to bed, Jemma, you’re knackered.”

“I’m afraid to leave you here with Omega, though. We’ve only got so many techs; I can’t let you kill one.”

Fitz assessed Omega through swollen eyes, clearly weighing his options. “Well…I suppose it might go faster with you.”

Smiling as best she could without wincing, she patted his arm before turning to Omega. “That’s all then. I’ll make him apologise after he’s gotten some rest.”

“Or once he’s better. I’m in no rush.” And Omega scuttled out sideways like a crab, stopping only to pump his hand full of antibacterial gel. Jemma waited until the door clicked shut before taking a deep enough breath to get through her sentence strong. “You could be more patient.”

“He could be less stupid.”

“Fitz, sweetheart, _I_ can barely understand you.” He didn’t look convinced. Jemma tried to muster up enough energy to roll her eyes and found it impossible; she was too exhausted from breathing. “Later we’ll practice being kind when ill. Acid bath?”

“Yeah,” he said, both to her promise and her question, and they didn’t speak again until the analysis was complete. “So it looks,” he said, and stopped to take a breath, “like your business more than mine.”

She shook her head, sending the fluid in her ears sloshing and making her clutch the edge of the table for balance. “That is, yes, but—”

“—you need a device.” He frowned, running his hands over his face. “Now?”

“Well now, or later when Coulson needs it fifteen minutes ago and drags us from our bed.”

“No,” he said instantly. “When I go to bed I’m not getting up again until I can breathe without making noise. Now. If you can manage?”

Pushing her hand under her hair, she guessed at her temperature and decided she wasn’t going to suffer permanent damage any time soon. “I’ll live. Come here.” He obeyed her crooked finger, presenting his forehead to be kissed. He tasted of sweat, but wasn’t warm enough to be concerned. “Low-grade fever. That’s good; it means you’re fighting it.”

“And losing,” he grumbled, searching in vain for a clean tissue.

Fortunately, they had done this enough times now that they wrapped up the newest version of the Inhuman Inhibitor within the hour, leaving it on the counter with strict deployment instructions. “There,” she says, signing a sloppy _FS_ to show they’d both approved it. “Our duty done.”

He snagged the pen from her hand and pulled the note towards him. _If you bother us for anything less than an evacuation, I’m going to test the Icemaker in the locker room showers_ , he wrote, adding his much neater _FS_ to the bottom.

“Won’t that punish us as well?” she pointed out as they made their way to the door.

He flicked off the light and took her hand. “So sue me, I’m not thinking straight. The pressure in my head is pushing what’s left of my brain out my ears.”

They snuffled and shuffled their way to their bedroom, not even stopping by the kitchen to retrieve the mix of tea leaves Jemma whipped up when the Cold From Hell first hit. Adrenaline dissipated, she couldn’t make herself prioritise future good over the present bliss of lying down as quickly as possible. It was almost more than she could manage to keep from throwing herself face-first on the bed. Fitz, naturally, succumbed, but rested there only a moment before rolling onto his back. “Can’t even mope properly. I hate my life.”

“All of it?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed to unlace her boots. Bending over made her dizzy, so she broke one of her cardinal rules and brought her foot up instead. She’d rather deal with the potential germs than a certain loss of consciousness.

Without opening his eyes, Fitz patted her hip. “Not all. Just most. Are you going to let me have some medicine tonight?”

Tugging off the second boot, she stood to shimmy out of her jeans. “Yes. I’m having some too.”   

His eyes did fly open at that, though he still didn’t move. Usually, she was loath to prescribe medication and very rarely took any herself. “Are you dying?”

“No more than usual.” She burrowed through the covers to find the worn pair of flannel pajama bottoms she wore the night before and pulled them on, glad she had a camisole on so she didn’t have to pull anything over her head. Unbuttoning her blouse, she shrugged out of it and dropped it on top of her jeans. “I’d like to keep it that way, and I think decongestant may be required. You have to sit up to take it, though.”

“Can’t,” he said. “I can’t move anymore. I don’t have enough oxygen.”

“Well, you’ll have to. You can’t sleep with your clothes on.”

“Watch me.”

“Fitz,” she said, her tone accepting no argument, and he groaned and heaved himself to a sitting position. Satisfied, she padded into the powder room to brush her teeth and retrieve the medicine. When she returned, he had dumped his outer clothes on top of hers and set a newly-opened tissue box between their pillows. He held out a hand for the pills and tossed them back between obedient swigs of water, knowing better than to try to take them dry. Wordlessly, she passed over a lid of mouthwash, which he used and spat into the water glass before flopping backwards. “ _Now_ I’m never moving again.”

“Now I’m going to join you.” She went around to her side of the bed and slid under the covers he flipped back for her, sighing in relief. Nothing, she thought, had ever felt as good as the mattress beneath her and the pleasant haze that meant the medication was already taking effect—unless that was just her body finally giving up the fight. Rolling onto her side, she put one hand on Fitz’s chest and began to snuggle into him.

“Jemma.”

She tilted her head up enquiringly.

“You know, um, you know that I love you.”

“Yes,” she said, bemused. “Yes, I think that’s quite clear by now.”

Fitz swallowed and pushed himself higher up the pillows. “So you won’t take it the wrong way when I say don’t touch me?”

Jerking back, she wished she had enough energy to glare. “What?”

“Only you’ve got the—the menthol rub all over you. And you’re all snotty.”

“So are you!”

“Yes, but it’s my snot.”

“It’s the same cold, Fitz.”

“But not the same snot. I’d rather not have your bodily fluids all over me.”

There was a joke to be made there, but her sick and foggy brain couldn’t bother to find it. Instead, she huffed “fine” and rolled away from him. It would have been an extremely effective gesture, were it not for the fact that she had to turn around again a moment later for a tissue. Apologetic blue eyes met her when she did. “I really do, you know.”

They had been through too much to take anything for granted, so she relented immediately. “I know.”

“C’mere.” He pulled her in, brushing her lips briefly with his. “I’d kiss you properly, but both sides of my nose are plugged at the same time.”

Smiling, she stroked his cheek. “It’s all right. Probably for the best, anyway; my head can’t hold it any longer.” Pushing onto her elbows, she blew for what felt like two minutes straight. Fitz put both hands over his ears while she did so. Finally clear, she peeled open the tissue to peer at the deposit. “Look!” she crowed, delighted, “it’s slightly less green than it was earlier. I must be on the mend. What color is yours?”

He closed his eyes to the sample she was trying to show him and slid further under the covers, mouth making as firm a line as possible while he had to have it open to breathe. “There are some things, Simmons, that a man doesn’t tell even his best friend, even if she also happens to be everything more than that.”

Planning to scope out the situation in the morning, she didn’t press, instead twisting a tissue to jam up her more leaky nostril and rolling to face the wall. “Sleep well, best friend and more.”

She wasn’t sure how many hours later she woke up in the dark, the tissue nowhere to be found and her face pressed into Fitz’s shoulder. His nose must have cleared up in his sleep, because he was snoring loudly enough to wake the dead. Blinking groggily, she lifted her head just enough to realise that she was not only snotting but also drooling all over his shirt, leaving damp spots that were quickly growing stiff. Oh, he wouldn’t appreciate that one bit, especially if her hair got stuck in it. Gingerly, she attempted to slide back to her side of the bed.

He snorted himself half-awake. “Jem? Wha—”

“Bodily fluids,” she said, trying to sop the worst of it up with a tissue. “I’m sorry.”

“ ’s fine.” He reached out one sleepy arm and brought her down against him. “You’re worth a few boogers.”

Which was, Jemma rather thought, the epitome of true love.  


End file.
